On the third time around, she commanded the sparks to dance. With her hands, she guided them into complex patterns, patterns which described the ancient powers. Swirling in groups of three, intertwining lines, and animals similar to those etched upon the brooch. Symbols carved upon the ancestor stones, pictures from seasons so long past that even the ancient memories had turned to legend and to myth.
Her hair stood on end as she completed the dance and commanded the sparks to coalesce into a single strike of lightning. Clíodhna directed it to the center of the circle, just past where Fingin huddled in abject fear.
The poor boy, frightened out of his wits, scrambled back. To his credit, he didn’t leave the circle. Instead, he huddled against the largest stone, the north-facing sentinel, and cried tears washed away in the rain.
Clíodhna walked to the place where the lightning had struck, the acrid odor of charred earth burning her nose. She raised her arms, still singing in the ancient language. She called down the gods in the words Adhna had taught her over several patient seasons.
“Mysterious Manannán and Aebh, rulers of the mists!
Shield us with your cloak
Brilliant Grian and Elatha of the sun and the moon!
Transport us with your silver craft
Powerful Tuireann of the thunder bolts!
Guard us with your fury
Honored Cailleach, the ruler of ice and snow!
Keep us in your arms.”
Her hair had escaped from her braid, whipping in the wind like sea eels. She called the light down to her, commanding the energy into shapes like the ancients drew. As she bid the energy to depart, to go back to its home in the sky, she felt a thousand winters younger. She hadn’t felt old before, but now she stood ready to take over the world.
Fingin’s eyes grew wide with horror.
“Now, child, are you ready for your legacy?”
He didn’t answer, but she reached into her bag and drew the brooch out. She held it out in its white fabric wrapping and unfolded each edge with ceremonial dignity. The green stones shone bright in the dark mists.
Fingin, despite his terror, reached out to touch the brooch. Clíodhna wanted to take it away, to spare the child the inevitable pain, but fate demanded her compliance. When he seized and fell, his scream cut through her soul. The thunder boomed in answer and lightning ripped across the sky. She sat cross-legged and placed his head in her lap, stroking his hair and rocking him.
Too weak from her conjuring to banish the storm, she gathered up the brooch, placed it in her pouch, and then lifted her grandson from the ground. With Adhna’s help, they carried him down to the roundhouse. His parents still out, they tucked him into his bed. He slept soundly enough and didn’t seem to have taken too much harm from the transfer of the brooch’s power. Still, she’d remain anxious until he woke without incident. Her hair fell into her eyes again, and she pushed it back behind her ear with impatience. She paused, examining the lock that used to be white. It had turned black again.
Just as she’d tucked Fingin’s blanket around him and turned to collapse into Adhna’s arms, voices outside drew her attention. She stumbled to the door to peer out into the darkness.
Several men carried torches, muttering amongst themselves. In the forefront stood Abbot Pátraic.
Behind Pátraic, the tanner glowered with hatred in his eyes. Clíodhna cursed her own hasty actions at his workshop. However, what was done was done. Now she must reap the reward for her own show of temper.
She stood in front of the roundhouse with her feet planted. With a quick glance to the roundhouse, she grabbed the pitchfork Fingin had abandoned earlier that evening. It gave her some sense of relief to hold a weapon, any weapon. “Why have you come to my home, Abbot Pátraic?”
He raised his decorated crozier high. She noticed he’d dressed in his ceremonial white robes with a sparkling gold and purple scarf draped across the back of his neck. It hung straight in front of him, showing off detailed embroidery. The same entwined animal shapes that she’d seen on the brooch danced on his scarf.
“I come to accuse you of being in league with the devil, of working with the evil forces he spews forth from fiery hell. I come to burn a wanton.” He pounded his crozier on the bare ground three times.
The men behind him raised their torches and shouted in avaricious glee at his ringing proclamation.
“You are mad, Abbot Pátraic. I don’t even know your devil.”
The tanner stepped forward, pointing a stained finger at her with malice. “She does! She threatened me with his wrath!”
Clíodhna rolled her eyes. “I did no such thing. I told you to stop dumping your disgusting mess into the river. You’d burn me for telling you not to foul our water supply?”
He growled at her and stepped back, allowing another man to step forward. “She told my wife to make friends with the Good Folk living in our hearth.”
Pátraic nodded as if this qualified as credible evidence for Clíodhna’s evil ways.
Had these people been her friends? She saw no women in the group, and only a few monks she didn’t recognize. She searched for Odhrán, relieved when she couldn’t see him. For once, she wished Rumann stayed home. Even he wouldn’t allow an angry mob to burn his own mother.
Adhna grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the roundhouse. He whispered in her ear. “You must know they won’t listen to reason. They’re too filled with prejudice and hate for the Fae. Our only chance is to flee to the stones. We don’t have the strength to fight so many.”
She glanced at him
